As I unfolded that crumpled piece of paper, I never anticipated that those five words, scrawled in my daughter’s familiar handwriting, would turn everything upside down: “Pretend to be sick and leave.” I looked at her, unsure, but she shook her head vigorously, her eyes pleading for my trust. Only later did I understand the urgency behind her warning.
The morning had begun like any typical day in our home on the outskirts of Chicago. It had been a little over two years since I married Richard, a successful businessman I met after my divorce. To outsiders, our life appeared idyllic: a comfortable home, financial security, and my daughter, Sarah, finally experiencing the stability she craved. Sarah, always the observant child, was rather quiet for her fourteen years. She absorbed everything around her like a sponge. Initially, her relationship with Richard was rocky, as is often the case when a new stepfather enters the picture, but over time, it seemed they found some kind of balance. At least, that was what I believed.
That Saturday morning, Richard hosted a brunch for his business associates at our home, a significant event. They were discussing the company’s expansion, and Richard was particularly eager to impress them. I had spent all week preparing, from the menu to the tiniest detail of the décor.
While I was in the kitchen finishing up the salad, Sarah appeared. Her face was pale, and there was something in her eyes that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Tension. Fear.
“Mom,” she murmured, approaching as if she were trying to blend into the background. “I need to show you something from my room.”
At that moment, Richard walked into the kitchen, adjusting his expensive tie. He always dressed impeccably, even for casual gatherings at home. “What are you two whispering about?” he asked with a smile that revealed nothing.
“Nothing important,” I responded automatically. “Sarah is just asking for help with some schoolwork.”
“Well, hurry up,” he said, glancing at his watch. “The guests will be arriving in thirty minutes, and I need you here to welcome them with me.”
I nodded and followed Sarah down the hallway. As soon as we entered her room, she closed the door sharply, almost violently. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? You’re scaring me.” Sarah didn’t respond. Instead, she grabbed a tiny note from her desk and handed it to me, glancing nervously at the door. I unfolded the paper and read her hurried words: “Pretend you’re sick and get out. Now.”
“Sarah, what kind of joke is this?” I asked, confused and slightly annoyed. “We don’t have time for games, not with guests about to arrive.”
“It’s not a joke,” she whispered. “Please, Mom, trust me. You have to get out of this house right now. Make up any excuse. Say you feel unwell, but just go.”
The desperation in her eyes froze me in place. In all my years as a mother, I had never seen my daughter so serious, so frightened. “Sarah, you’re alarming me. What’s going on?”
She glanced back at the door, as though she feared someone might overhear us. “I can’t explain now. I promise I’ll tell you everything later. But right now, you have to trust me. Please.”
Before I could press further, we heard footsteps in the hallway. The doorknob twisted, and Richard appeared, visibly irritated. “What’s going on? The first guest just arrived!”
I looked at my daughter; her eyes silently begged me. Then, by some inexplicable impulse, I decided to trust her. “I’m sorry, Richard,” I said, bringing my hand to my forehead. “I suddenly feel a bit dizzy. I think it might be a migraine.”
Richard frowned, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Now, Helen? You were perfectly fine just five minutes ago.”
“I know. It just hit me unexpectedly,” I explained, trying to convincingly appear ill. “You all can start without me. I’m going to take some medicine and lie down for a bit.”
For a moment, I felt the tension mount; I thought he might argue. But then the doorbell rang, and he seemed to decide that attending to the guests was more important. “Alright, but try to join us as soon as you can,” he said, leaving the room.
As soon as we were alone again, Sarah took my hands. “You’re not lying down. We’re leaving right now. Say you need to go to the pharmacy to get something stronger. I’ll come with you.”
“Sarah, this is ridiculous. I can’t just abandon our guests.”
“Mom,” her voice trembled. “I’m begging you. This isn’t a game. It’s about your life.”
There was something raw, so genuine in her fear that I felt a chill run down my spine. What could have terrified my daughter so? What did she know that I was unaware of? Quickly, I grabbed my purse and car keys. We found Richard in the living room, chatting animatedly with two suited men.
“Richard, excuse me,” I interrupted. “My headache is getting worse. I’m going to the pharmacy to get something stronger. Sarah is coming with me.”
His smile froze for a moment before he turned to the guests with a resigned expression. “My wife isn’t feeling well,” he explained. “I’ll be back soon,” he added, turning back to me. His tone was casual, but his eyes conveyed something I couldn’t decipher.
Once we were in the car, Sarah trembled. “Drive, Mom,” she said, looking back at the house as if expecting something terrible to happen. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll explain everything on the way.”
I started the car, a thousand questions swirling in my mind. What could be so serious? It was when she began to speak that my entire world collapsed.
“Mom, Richard is trying to kill you,” she sobbed, “I heard him last night on the phone, talking about putting poison in your tea.”
I slammed on the brakes, nearly colliding with the back of a stopped truck at the traffic light. I froze, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe or speak. Sarah’s words seemed absurd, like something out of a cheap thriller.
“What are you saying, Sarah? This isn’t funny,” I finally managed to utter, my voice weaker than I would have liked.
“Do you think I’d joke about something like this?” Her eyes were teary, her face twisted in a mix of fear and anger. “I heard everything, Mom. Everything.”
A driver behind me honked, snapping me back to reality. The light had turned green, and I accelerated, driving aimlessly, just to get away from the house. “Tell me exactly what you heard,” I asked, trying to keep calm, though I still felt my heart pounding in my chest like a caged animal.
Sarah took a deep breath before she began. “Last night, I went down to get some water. It was late, maybe two in the morning. Richard’s office door was ajar, and the light was on. He was talking on the phone, whispering.” She paused, as if gathering courage. “At first, I thought he was discussing the business, but then I heard your name.”
I gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white.
“He said, ‘Everything is planned for tomorrow. Helen will have her tea like she always does during these events. No one will suspect a thing. It will seem like a heart attack. Did you assure me?’ And then… then he laughed, Mom. He laughed as if he were talking about the weather.”
I felt my stomach drop. This couldn’t be true. Richard, the man with whom I shared my bed, my life, plotting my death. It was too absurd. “Maybe you misunderstood,” I suggested, desperately searching for another explanation. “Maybe he was talking about another Helen. Or perhaps it was a metaphor for a business deal.”
Sarah shook her head vigorously. “No, Mom. He was talking about you, about today’s lunch. He said that if you were out of the way, he would have full access to the insurance money and the house.” She hesitated before adding, “And he mentioned my name too. He said afterwards he would take care of me, one way or another.”
A chill ran down my spine. Richard had always been so caring, so attentive. How could I have been so wrong? “Why would he do that?” I murmured, more to myself than to her.
“The life insurance, Mom. The one you two took out six months ago. Remember? A million dollars.”
It felt like a punch to the gut. The insurance. Of course, Richard had insisted so much on that policy, saying it was to protect me. But now, under this new, sinister light, I realized it had been the opposite from the beginning.
“There’s more,” Sarah continued, almost in a whisper. “After he hung up, he started going through some papers. I waited for him to leave and then went into the office. There were documents about his debts, Mom. A lot of debts. It seems the company is almost bankrupt.”
I pulled the car over to the side of the road, unable to continue driving. Was Richard bankrupt? How had I not known this?
“I also found this,” Sarah said, pulling out a folded paper from her pocket. “It’s a statement from another bank account in his name. He’s been transferring money there for months; small amounts, so it wouldn’t raise suspicions.”
I took the paper with trembling hands. It was true. An account I knew nothing about, accumulating what seemed to be our money, my money, actually, from the sale of the apartment I inherited from my parents. Reality began to crystallize, cruel and undeniable. Richard was not only bankrupt; he had been systematically stealing from me for months. And now, he had decided that I was worth more dead than alive.
“Oh my God!” I whispered, feeling nauseated. “How could I have been so blind?”
Sarah placed her hand over mine, a gesture of comfort that seemed absurdly mature. “It’s not your fault, Mom. He fooled everyone.” Suddenly, a terrible thought hit me. “Sarah, did you take those documents from his office? What if he realizes they’re missing?” The fear returned to her eyes. “I just took pictures with my phone and left everything as it was. I don’t think he’ll notice.” But even as she said it, neither of us seemed convinced. Richard was meticulous.
“We have to call the police,” I decided, grabbing my phone.
“And what?” Sarah retorted. “That I heard him talking about this on the phone? That we found documents proving he is siphoning money? We don’t have any real proof of anything, Mom.”
She was right. It was our word against his: a respected businessman versus a hysterical ex-wife and a troubled teenager. As we weighed our options, my phone buzzed. A message from Richard: Where are you? The guests are asking for you. His message seemed so normal, so everyday.
“What are we going to do now?” Sarah asked, her voice trembling.
We couldn’t go back home. That was clear. But we also couldn’t simply vanish. Richard had resources. He would find us.
“First we need evidence,” I ultimately decided. “Concrete evidence that we can present to the police.”
“Like what?”
“Like the substance he was planning to use today.” The plan that began to form in my mind was risky, perhaps even reckless. But as the initial terror gave way to cold, calculated anger, I knew we had to act, and quickly.
“We’re going back,” I announced, turning the key in the ignition.
“What?” Sarah’s eyes widened in panic. “Mom, are you out of your mind? He’s going to kill you!”
“Not if I get there first,” I replied, surprised by the firmness of my own voice. “Think with me, Sarah. If we run now without evidence, what will happen? Richard will say I had a nervous breakdown, that I took you out of here on an irrational impulse. He will find us, and we would be even more vulnerable.” I turned abruptly back towards the house. “We need solid proof. The substance he was going to use today is our best bet.”
Sarah looked at me intently, her face reflecting a mix of fear and admiration. “But how are we going to do it without him noticing?”
“Let’s keep up the charade. I’ll say I went to the pharmacy, took a pain reliever, and I’m feeling a bit better. You will head straight to your room, pretending to be sick too. While I distract Richard and the guests, you’ll search his office.”
Sarah nodded slowly, her expression resolute. “And what if I find something? Or worse, what if he realizes what we’re doing?”
I swallowed hard. “Send a message with the word ‘now’. If I receive it, I’ll come up with an excuse and we’ll leave immediately. If you find anything, take pictures, but don’t take anything out of there.”
As we approached the house, I could feel my heart racing. I was about to enter the lion’s den. When I parked at the entrance, I noticed there were more cars. All the guests had arrived.
The murmur of conversations greeted us as soon as we opened the door. Richard was at the center of the living room, telling a story that made everyone laugh. The moment he saw us, his smile faded for an instant.
“Ah, you’re back!” he exclaimed, stepping closer and wrapping an arm around my waist. His touch, once comforting, now repulsed me. “Are you feeling better, dear?”
“A bit,” I replied, forcing a smile. “The medicine is starting to kick in.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, turning to Sarah. “And you, sweetheart? You look a little pale.”
“I have a headache too,” Sarah murmured, perfectly playing her part. “I think I’m going to lie down for a while.”
“Of course, of course,” Richard said, with such a convincingly feigned concern that had I not known the truth, I would have believed him entirely.
Sarah went upstairs to her room, and I joined the guests, accepting the glass of water Richard offered me. I declined the champagne, claiming it wouldn’t mix with my medicine.
“No tea today?” he asked casually, sending a shiver down my spine.
“I think not,” I replied, maintaining a light tone. “I try to avoid caffeine when I have a migraine.”
For a brief moment, something shadowed his eyes but vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by his usual charm. As Richard guided me among the guests, I kept a fixed smile, even as I felt heightened alertness inside. Every time he touched my arm, I fought the urge to pull away. Every smile he gave me now seemed loaded with sinister implications. Discreetly, I checked my phone. There was still no message from Sarah.
About twenty minutes later, while Richard and I were talking to a couple, my phone vibrated. A single word on the screen: Now.
My blood ran cold. We had to leave immediately. “Excuse me,” I said to the group, forcing a smile. “I need to check on Sarah.” Before Richard could protest, I quickly dashed upstairs.
I found Sarah in her room, her face as pale as paper. “He’s coming,” she whispered, gripping my arm. “I realized he was coming up, and I ran in here.”
“Did you find anything?” I asked quickly, pulling her toward the door.
“Yes, in the office. A little unlabeled bottle hidden in his desk drawer. I took pictures.”
We had no time left. We heard footsteps in the hallway and then Richard’s voice: “Helen? Sarah? Are you in there?”
I exchanged a quick, alarmed glance with my daughter. We couldn’t go out through the hallway now. He would see us. The bedroom window opened into the backyard, but we were on the second floor; a fall could be dangerous.
“Stay put,” I whispered. “We’ll pretend we were just talking.”
The door opened, and Richard came in, his gaze landing immediately on Sarah’s frightened face. “Is everything alright in here?” he asked with a casual tone, yet his eyes were alert, suspicious.
“Yes,” I replied, trying to sound normal. “Sarah still has a headache. I came to check if she needed anything.”
Richard scrutinized us for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I see. And you, sweetheart, is your headache feeling any better?”
“A bit,” I lied. “I think I can return to the party now.”
He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Excellent. By the way, I prepared that special tea you like. It’s waiting for you in the kitchen.”
My stomach churned. The tea. The trap he had mentioned on the phone. “Thank you, but I think I won’t have it today. The medicine…”
“I insist,” he interrupted with a tone that was still polite but carried a new firmness. “It’s a new blend I ordered especially for you. It also helps with headaches.”
Then I realized how dangerous our situation was. If I refused too vehemently, I’d raise his suspicions. If I drank the tea, I’d be in serious trouble. “Alright,” I finally agreed, trying to buy time. “I’ll stay here for just a few more minutes with Sarah.”
Richard hesitated, seemingly debating internally, before he nodded. “Don’t take too long.”
As soon as he left, closing the door behind him, Sarah and I exchanged alarmed glances. “The tea,” she whispered. “He is going to insist that you drink it.”
“I know,” I replied, panic flooding over me. “We have to get out of here right now, even if we have to go out the window. But as we planned our escape, I heard something that paralyzed me: the sound of a key turning in the lock, shutting us in from the outside. Richard was not only watching us; he had trapped us.
“Has he locked us in?” Sarah exclaimed, running to the door and futilely trying to open it.
Panic threatened to paralyze me, but I forced myself to think. If Richard had locked us in, it meant he suspected something. “The window,” I decided, quickly making my way to it. It was our only escape. I glanced down. The drop was about fifteen feet down to the grass. It wouldn’t be fatal, but it was dangerous.
“It’s too high, Mom,” Sarah said, her face contorted with fear.
“I know, sweetheart, but we have no other choice.” I looked around and my gaze fixed on the comforter on the bed. “We can use it as a makeshift rope.” I quickly tore it off and began tying it to the heavy desk base. It wouldn’t be long enough to reach the ground, but it would lessen the height of the fall.
“Mom,” Sarah called softly, pointing to the door. “He’s coming back.”
Listening closely, I realized she was right. I could hear footsteps approaching. “Quickly,” I whispered, finishing the knot and throwing the comforter out the window. “Go first. Get down as far as you can, then let go.”
Sarah hesitated for just a moment before positioning herself by the window. The footsteps drew nearer. I heard the key turning in the lock. “Go!” I ordered.
Sarah began her descent. I watched anxiously as she reached the end of the fabric, still about six feet from the ground. “Let go now!” I urged when I saw the door starting to open. Sarah let go and landed on the grass, rolling as I had instructed. She quickly stood up, giving me a thumbs up.
There was no time left for me. Richard entered the room. Without thinking twice, I grabbed the comforter and jumped out the window, sliding down the fabric so fast I burned my hands. As I hit the ground, I heard a furious scream from the room. “Helen!” Richard’s voice, unrecognizable in his rage, made me release my grip instantly. I landed awkwardly, feeling a sharp pain in my left ankle, but with adrenaline pumping, I hardly noticed it.
“Run!” I yelled to Sarah. Following my gaze, I saw Richard leaning out of the window, his face twisted in fury.
“He’s coming down the stairs,” I warned, grabbing Sarah’s hand. “We need to hurry.” We ran through the backyard, limping towards the low wall that separated our property from the side street. We heard slamming doors and loud voices. Richard had alerted the guests, turning our escape into a public spectacle.
We reached the woods, a small nature reserve. “The photos,” I remembered. “Do you still have them?” She nodded and pulled out her phone. The images displayed a small amber bottle with no label and a handwritten note with Richard’s script: a timeline with notes. 10:30 Guests arrive. 11:45 Serve tea. Effects in 15-20 minutes. Show concern. Call ambulance at 12:10. Too late. It was a detailed chronology of my demise.
We heard voices in the distance. The search party. “Let’s go,” I encouraged her. Finally, we spotted the little metal service door. It was locked. “Mom, your access card,” Sarah said. I swiped it on the reader, praying it would work. The green light came on, and the door clicked open.
We stepped out onto a quiet street. We stopped a taxi and headed to Crest View Mall, a place busy enough to remain under the radar. We sat in a secluded corner of a café. I picked up my phone and saw dozens of missed calls and messages from Richard. The last one read: “Helen, please come back home. I am very worried. If this is about our argument yesterday, we can talk. Don’t do anything impulsive. I love you.” The falseness of those words sent another wave of nausea through me. He was constructing his narrative.
Another message arrived: I called the police. They are looking for you. Please, Helen, think about Sarah. My blood ran cold. He had called the police, but as the concerned husband of an emotionally unstable woman.
I called my college friend, Francesca Navaro, a criminal defense attorney. I explained everything. “Stay where you are,” she ordered. “I’m coming to get you. I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Don’t talk to anyone, especially the police, until I arrive.”
While we waited, Sarah confessed she had suspected Richard for a while; little things, the way he looked at me when he thought no one was watching, cold and calculating. “You seemed so happy with him, Mom,” she said. “I didn’t want to ruin it.” Tears streamed down my cheeks. My teenage daughter had sensed the danger long before I did.
Then, another message from Richard: The police found blood in Sarah’s room. Helen, what did you do? He was incriminating me.
In that very moment, two uniformed police officers entered the café.
The officers spotted us and approached our table. “Ms. Helen Mendoza?” one of them asked. “Your husband is very concerned about you and your daughter. He reported that you left the house in an altered state, possibly putting the minor at risk.”
Before I could respond, Sarah intervened. “That’s a lie! My stepfather is trying to kill us! I have proof!”
The officers exchanged skeptical glances. “Ma’am,” the younger one said, “your husband informed us you might be going through psychological issues. He said you’ve had similar episodes before.”
Rage surged within me. “That’s absurd! I’ve never had an episode! My husband is lying because we uncovered his plans!”
Sarah showed the photos on her phone. “This is the bottle I found,” she said. “And this is the timeline he wrote.”
The officers examined the photos, their expressions hard to read. “Seems like an ordinary bottle,” the older one remarked. “As for the paper, it could be any note.”
Just then, Francesca arrived. “I see the police have already found you,” she said, immediately assessing the situation. She introduced herself as my attorney and began to dismantle their assumptions. “My clients have photographic evidence of potentially lethal substances and written documentation suggesting a plan. Additionally, the minor, Ms. Sarah, overheard a phone conversation in which Mr. Mendoza explicitly detailed his plans.”
“Mr. Mendoza mentioned finding blood in the minor’s room,” the younger officer commented.
Francesca remained unfazed. “I suggest you return to the precinct and file a report, just as I am filing now: attempted murder, evidence tampering, and false reporting against Mr. Richard Mendoza.”
The already uncomfortable officers agreed to take our statements at the precinct.
“Helen, the situation is worse than I imagined,” Francesca said quietly once they left. “Richard acted swiftly. He is gathering evidence against you.”
Then my phone vibrated again. Richard: Helen, did the police find you? I’m coming to the mall. I just want to help.
“He’s coming here,” Francesca said, standing up. “We need to go now. To the precinct. It’s the safest place.”
At the precinct, Francesca led us directly to the commander’s office. “My clients are being threatened by Mrs. Mendoza’s husband,” she explained. “We have evidence that he planned to poison her today.”
Just then, Richard entered, a mask of perfect concern on his face. “Helen! Sarah!” he exclaimed. “Thank God you’re safe!”
Commander Ríos permitted him to enter. “Helen, why did you run off like that?” he asked, his confusion so convincing that I almost doubted myself.
“Mr. Mendoza,” Commander Ríos interrupted, “the Mrs. Helen and her attorney are filing a complaint against you for attempted murder.”
Richard looked genuinely surprised. “This is absurd! Helen, what are you doing? Is this about that medicine? I already told you it was just to help with your anxiety attacks.” He explained to the commander that I suffered from paranoia and that some Dr. Santos had prescribed me a mild tranquilizer. His account was so plausible, so carefully constructed.
“That’s a lie!” I shouted, my voice trembling with anger. “I’ve never had anxiety issues! I’ve never seen Dr. Santos!”
“I heard everything,” Sarah said, staring Richard straight in the eyes. “I heard you talking on the phone last night, planning to poison my mom. You wanted to kill her to collect the insurance. You’re bankrupt. I saw the documents.”
Before Richard could respond, an officer entered with an envelope. “Commander, we just received the preliminary results from the forensic investigation at the Mendoza residence.”
Commander Ríos opened it with a grave expression. “Mr. Mendoza, you mentioned blood in the minor’s room. Correct?”
“Yes,” Richard nodded. “I was desperate.”
“Interesting,” the commander continued. “Because according to this analysis, the blood found is no more than two hours old, and the blood type does not match either Mrs. Helen’s or the minor’s. It matches your blood type, Mr. Mendoza. Which strongly suggests you placed it there.”
A heavy silence fell. Richard paled.
“Furthermore,” the commander continued, “we found this.” He pulled out a photo of the amber bottle. “Preliminary tests indicate the presence of a substance resembling arsenic. That’s not exactly something you’d expect to find in an anxiety medication, is it?”
It was like watching a house of cards collapse. Richard sprang up. “This is a setup! Helen must have planned this!”
“When exactly would she have done that?” Francesca asked calmly. “Considering she and Sarah have been here for over two hours.”
At that moment, the façade completely shattered. His face morphed into an expression I had never seen: pure malice, visceral hatred directed at me. “You stupid fool!” he shouted, lunging towards me. “You’ve ruined everything!”
The officers barred him before he could reach me, but not before I glimpsed the real Richard. “Did you really believe I loved you?” he snarled, struggling against them. “A mediocre teacher with a troubled teenager? You were worth nothing but your money and the life insurance!”
As the officers dragged him out of the room, his shouts echoed down the hallway, leaving a heavy silence in their wake.
The trial turned into a media spectacle. The story of a husband plotting to end his wife’s life for money, thwarted only by the quick response of a brave teenager, captured the public’s attention. The investigation also revealed that I was not his first victim. There had been another woman before me, a widow who died of natural causes six months after marrying him. He inherited everything, squandered it quickly, and then sought his next prey: me.
The verdict, when it finally arrived, was severe: thirty years for attempted murder, plus fifteen years for financial fraud, with strong indications of involvement in the death of his ex-wife, which remained under investigation.
Six months later, Sarah and I moved into a new apartment. One morning, while unpacking, I found a small folded piece of paper between the pages of a novel. I recognized Sarah’s handwriting immediately, and the words transported me back to that crucial moment: “Pretend to be sick and leave.”
I carefully stored the note in a little wooden box, a permanent reminder not only of the danger we faced but also of the strength we found within ourselves to overcome it. A year passed. Francesca had become a great friend. One night, she came with news: they had exhumed Richard’s first wife’s body and found traces of arsenic. He would be tried for first-degree murder, likely resulting in a life sentence without parole. The sale of Richard’s assets also went through, and as compensation, I was awarded half a million dollars.
“A toast!” I proclaimed that night, raising my glass. “To new beginnings!”
As we enjoyed our meal, talking about the future instead of the past, I realized that while the scars remained, they had transformed into marks of survival, not merely trauma. Richard had tried to destroy us, but in the end, his betrayal fortified us in ways I had never imagined. Our story needed to be told, not only as a warning but as a message of hope: it is possible to survive the worst betrayals and rebuild ourselves. Sometimes, our salvation comes from the most unexpected places, like a simple note hastily written by a teenager: five words that made the difference between life and death.